


Peach

by baeberiibungh



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Backstory, Depression, Derek POV, Fluff, Food, Food Porn, M/M, Stiles POV, after years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-10 22:45:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5603713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baeberiibungh/pseuds/baeberiibungh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles loves peaches and Derek loves to see him get what he wants...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You bite into it, sweet sweet sweet flooding your mouth, yet to touch your tongue, your teeth _tasting_ it first, and the skin, taunt over the ripe flesh, feels like the thin film over leather, but thicker and that tang that nips through that sweet and it is already on your tongue, saliva rushing along like a wave through the length of your tongue, ending up just beyond your gums, feeling the teeth bite right through the mouthful, scraping the seed a bit, just there at the end, a trail of juice of slipping through the corner of the open lips yet to be closed and then you bite again and the texture hits you next, feeling like how wet sand would feel like if it was not really wet sand, wet granules in a solid chomp that is mashed and smashed and your mouth feels full and your stomach get hungry anew for it wants to devour this new thing too, it want to feel the life that still lingers on them and then you take the other bite, juices on your hand now, seeping from the cut flesh and you feel _happy_ , because you have been hoping to eat the peach the whole day while you sat in your office, in barely remembered thoughts, and it sat on the table like a luscious drop of colour welcoming you to aliveness just for you.

You had washed it last night when you made your lunches, at first deciding to take the peach too, but you didn’t at the last moment, drool licking your mouth for a scant half of half a second as you thought of eating it _after_ , after office, after the talking, the smiling, the repetitive work and the eyelashes that feel heavy when they shut out the world for a moment, and you think that you will get it later, will have it later and it is a shiny thought, not a solid one though, not important enough to be solid, but you remember this another place you had a bunch of peaches, rubbed on your tee, you and your friend, hiding from the sun under the shade of the tree and you remember smiling then, you remember laughing and being innocent and these are memories never realised while you go on with your day, but the peach is there, at home, before more noise, more sounds and demands and needs and you think that it will be sweet to have the peach under the same tree and you the same and then you staple your stack of papers and forgot that you had remembered anything.

You are still and sitting on a chair and the clutter that surrounds you don’t feel that heavy a burden as usual, for you are still half remembering that old memory and the peaches of that day. Were they tastier, you can’t help think, they definitely must have been, those yonder years of your childhood an utopian land without the awareness of want, without realising time will go on forever and is not still for you but you are running at the speed of time and, you almost decide that yes, those were better. But this one is sweet too, you tell yourself, eating it in bites and bits, a slow smile on your face that you can actually feel, the way the corners of your lips are tilting up, and you still feel happy, you do. And then the front door opens and _he_ steps through, footsteps light and coming right to you, and the thought comes to your mind how his bodywash always smells like peach, when you kiss him deep and hold him hard, he feels just as sweet and so now when he dips low, you kiss him sweet too, letting him taste you, taste the happiness of your memory, of your childhood that never knew him and of your youth that did and you feel happier and blessed and throw the pit away and snuggle onto him and say, in a voice lazy with memories and want, _I love you_. He says the same back.


	2. Chapter 2

You love him, the _boy_ , who will always be a boy to you although both of you are in your 30s now. For that is how you remember seeing him for the first time, really seeing him, even though you had seen him before, hiding behind the long blue skirt of a tall woman with warm eyes and smiling lips as she talked with your mother. The boy, a child then, had his thumb in his mouth and his eyes had been huge, as huge as the moon and you were fascinated but did not linger when your sister called you to play, you were too small then. But later, when your eyes fell on him, when you fell in love with him years, minutes, moments before he did and you actually felt the wonder you had glimpsed all those years ago. Even now, his eyes are big enough to get lost in, to see the cosmos swimming in there and for you to drown some more if it were possible. And you love him with the depth of your being, with the whole of your consciousness and with the blood of your heart. 

You love the boy, the way he is never still, the way he make messes and then regrets those burst of energy that leaves him drained and sad and clinging to you, You like how he licks the spoon, you like how he pulls at his hair slightly when he is thinking deep. You love his sleeping form that holds onto you and snuffles into you, his heat and his breath on your neck. You meet his friends and they tell of peach trees and then you meet the ex and she tells you of his nightmares and what to do when he starts screaming _hold him tight hold him and never let him go_ and then you meet the mother figure and she looks at you with the fiercest look anyone had ever given you and you meet it straight on, letting it sink in, and then you meet the father, busy and tired and scared of letting go of his one and only child. And you feel giddy when the father sits near you and puts a beer in your hand and tell you tales from his childhood, the times his mother used to cut up peaches for his lunchbox, the time he ran away from home, the time he cried and cried for his father to not leave him like his mother.

So the next time you go home, you ask your mother a favour, a basket of round and plump peaches, from the trees planted by a great grandfather in the backyard and she smiles at you as she asks if it is for your boy. You say yes and get the boon and carry them home and his eyes go round, and he snatches one right off the basket and bites into it and you see the bliss on his face and the tiny tear that rolls off his cheek and you wipe them away and lick away his lips and you just sit and watch him eat each with pleasure. You see him eye the dwindling basket and refraining from eating too many at once even though you have already promised him more from your mothers. He nods and says yes and doesn’t eat that many. And then only one is left and you have already called your mother to ask for more and she had already set some aside and you reach home and he is home, still coming back to you in spite of how much you fear that one day he won’t he will just head to his father’s and you will be left alone.

You see him and head to him and kiss him, taste him and hear him and feel him and you think _I am so lucky_ when he kisses you back, mouth wet from the peach. He confesses his love to you in hushed tones and it is impossible for you to not say _I love you more_ in return.

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed. Thanks for reading.


End file.
